


Pizza Box

by Ash_Cassidy97



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Shooting Guns, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7605319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ash_Cassidy97/pseuds/Ash_Cassidy97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that scene would Stiles fumbles a gun, even though he's the sheriff's son? Well, fuck that scene.</p>
<p>A character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pizza Box

He had half a million guns in his father’s safe. There was a mountain ash coated knife under his pillow, tucked away with its dull metal handle sticking out slightly. He carried a bat, walking practically open-handed into warzones.

 

Skinny, converse, red hoodies.

Blood on his hands.

 

When he was six, his mom took him to a gun range. He wore ear muffs. She carried her police Glock with its left-handed grip. She put 12 bullets dead-center.

 

She stopped going when he was ten. She stopped going anywhere. He got his BB license when he was 13. Dad signed for him, filling out the paperwork with a blank face.

 

Mom left him the Glock. Dad was right-handed.

 

Stiles bought his first gun with money from his paper route. His first four clips went wild because his hands kept shaking. He steadied his breath with the five, releasing slowly and relaxed his fingers just enough. His next six were hits. The last two bullets were dead center, left-handed.

 

He got hired at the police station, filing reports and cleaning the gun range. He never bought a second gun.

 

It was his church, his alter. This was where he picked up life by letting the sound of bullets rattle around his rib cage. He shot two clips and he could go home to Dad, who didn’t care that his son felt safest at a gun range.

 

Then Sophomore year happened.

 

He carried a bat because this was not his church. This was death and blood and loss and his mother’s ghost had no place here. He was not Peter. He would not go mad from the past.

 

So Stiles lied, kept lying to fucking werewolves. Derek and Scott never got it. He had a gun and a clip in his bedside table, and a knife under his pillow. The only difference was that knife got coated in mountain ash. He liked being underestimated.

 

Foxes lie and laze.

 

Stiles signed up at a gym and learned how to throw a damn punch. Snapback. Twist hips. Punch. Snap. Back. Cross. Step. Duck. Step. Cross.

 

Dad knew. He caught his son fighting shadows at night. Stiles never killed anybody with a gun because he wasn’t Kira’s mom. His ghost would stay at the gun range.

 

Converse. Red Hoodie.

147 pounds.

Bloody Hands.

He tracked Deaton down because the police station was a battleground and Scott was trying to better himself again. They didn’t talk much.

 

“Sir,” Stiles began respectfully, “I want to learn.”

 

His ghost would remain in a six inch by six inch wooden champ with a lamp balanced precariously on it.

 

It was funny,” Stiles thought, looking back, Alison used a wooden longbow over guns, crossbows or compounds. He thought she was on to something.

 

“Light the candle,” Deaton told him.

 

Derek left, went to France for two months. Stiles emailed him because it was Derek and Derek was trying to find Church. Stiles wrote Chris, asking about staffs. Druids were peaceful and Stiles was only at peace with guns. Derek emailed back, talking about the views. Chris wrote back, writing out instructions in black block letter.

 

When everything was shit and Scott couldn’t know he was falling apart, he went to Derek’s apartment because seriously the guy only owned one pan and a fork. Nothing else. Well. There was a bed. With no sheets.

 

Stiles took him to Ikea and the gun range. Derek took Stiles hiking like fucking summer camp, only Ron in the sixth grade and pimples and a distinct lack of muscles.

 

So yeah. Stiles wrote Derek.

 

He wrote weapon love letters to Chris because he’d killed Allison and Chris was the only person who owned up to that fact. Scott got to write it off and everybody said he was clean, like it had been a disease. It wasn’t.

 

It was rot and fire.

Death and Cobwebs

                                                                                                                                  And fun.

And Chris would never forgive him and Stiles needed that to ground him, that he was dangerous.

 

He didn’t write Isaac.

 

A woman would toss him a gun and he would fumble, flicking the safety back on as it fell. This was not his altar to cleanse his soul at. He killed people with lies and a katana once. He had a bag of mountain ash in his pocket and Air curling round his fingers.

  
This was his battleground.

**Author's Note:**

> Pizza Box is the lowest possible gun qualification that American soldiers need to make. Think Stormtroopers.
> 
> I had too much fun with sentence structure and paragraphs.
> 
> It's not really finished but I'm kinda low on getting Internet access so here's what it is so far.


End file.
